In quaaludes and red wine...
If Ethan asks me why I chose Mujeres al Borde de un Ataque de Nervios, I might tell him it's because I knew it features a young Antonio Banderas. Or Rossy de Palma.
But I survived another Thanksgiving. I brought back with me some sweaters, Out on Stage: Lesbian and Gay Theatre in the Twentieth Century, and my writer's notebook. Maybe I should ask for tiny gold boxes. I don't know what else to ask for, and everyone still wants to give me gifts. Ungrateful me. I wasn't able to cry yesterday listening to Bowie's "Time" (acting as my flute interlude), or tonight while reading Fires in the Mirror (fuck the monolith, write a play about Louis). Tiny gold boxes, with sharp edges. Mother said, "I'm surprised you're not pierced and tattooed." I really like Mujeres. Ha. But I do.
But I survived another Thanksgiving. I brought back with me some sweaters, Out on Stage: Lesbian and Gay Theatre in the Twentieth Century, and my writer's notebook. Maybe I should ask for tiny gold boxes. I don't know what else to ask for, and everyone still wants to give me gifts. Ungrateful me. I wasn't able to cry yesterday listening to Bowie's "Time" (acting as my flute interlude), or tonight while reading Fires in the Mirror (fuck the monolith, write a play about Louis). Tiny gold boxes, with sharp edges. Mother said, "I'm surprised you're not pierced and tattooed." I really like Mujeres. Ha. But I do.